


Soft with Ring Upon Ring Upon Ring

by Island_of_Reil



Series: Unrequited [3]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Execution, F/F, Revenge, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 15:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1904169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Christa was a good girl. She didn’t hike up her skirts or paint her face or make cow’s eyes at men. She gave everything of herself to everybody. Except for one thing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It's easy to be good when what they call “being bad” isn't what you want.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft with Ring Upon Ring Upon Ring

**Author's Note:**

> [Kinkmeme prompt.](http://snkkink.dreamwidth.org/13546.html?thread=8449002#cmt8449002) 
> 
> The fic title comes from [Brenda Shaughnessy’s poem “Card 19: The Sun.”](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/242492)

Our mother was a whore. She ended up with her throat cut.

Christa was a good girl. She didn’t hike up her skirts or paint her face or make cow’s eyes at men. She gave everything of herself to everybody. Except for one thing.

It's easy to be good when what they call “being bad” isn't what you want.

Christa didn’t dream of handsome boys with laughing eyes sitting her on their knees, of hard-eyed and hard-armed men in shirtsleeves with vine on their breath, of Sina noblemen turned out sharp in costly coats and breeches, of corporals or captains or commanders with green cloaks flowing from broad shoulders. Because Christa didn’t dream of anyone at all.

I did all the dreaming for us. I didn’t dream of those things, either. I dreamed of hips flaring under white trousers that clung tightly to newly softened thighs, of the swell of golden breasts under a cheap tattered brassière, of freckles arching over cheekbones like a constellation over the night sky, of a voice that could be soft and hard and sharp and sugary all in the span of three seconds. Sometimes all at the same time.

Then I’d bolt upright in bed, damp and pulsating and confused, and Christa would gently but firmly fold me away for the waking hours, like a doll into its box.

You smashed that box into splinters, and Christa along with it.

Christa was a good girl. I am not. I do not give of myself until I am hollowed out like a house in Shiganshina. I resent. I hate. I want. I _crave_.

You are power. You are truth, another kind of power. Standing nine meters tall you brought down titans larger than you. Standing less than two meters tall you brought down a Wall made of lies.

Soon enough I will be power, too. It wasn’t my choice. My choice is to stop living for others. To live for me, to live for you. Once I take the throne for others, I will take it for me, and for you.

Six footmen in queen’s livery will carry it into Humanity Square in Sina, where the gallows will be strung with three nooses. One for the man who was no father, one for the man who killed my mother, one for the man who grabbed me by the throat and flung me onto the throne. I will sit it straight-backed my cold eye upon them, watching them twist and kick and darken and piss themselves.

You will stand behind me, your fingers sinking into my shoulder through my robe of office. (The man on whose shoulders it now rests is tall; they will cut it down for me, just as he will be cut down for me.) When nothing moves on the gallows except the wind, I will not see your relief, but I will feel it through your hand, through the thickness of ermine.

I will stand, then, and take that hand. I will acknowledge you to humanity as I once acknowledged myself to you. We who once lived on potatoes and hard tack and herring corroding in tins will feast on suckling pig and _Sachertorte_ and vine. Then I will lead you to a featherbed dressed in silk sheets and piled high with cushions, a canopy folded around it like hands in prayer. 

Hours later, bright with sweat, I will lay my head against a golden breast, and I will dream of nothing that will disappoint me by vanishing as I awake.


End file.
